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Ch. 4: The Signs of the Nine Hills
(Return to Arheled) The warmth of May just as quickly receded into cool, gloomy days and rain. Sunday was especially rainy: Ronnie Wendy had to drive to Mass. But he liked spring rains; although cold they were also laden with green and growth, quite unlike the grim rains of winter. He waved hello to the Midwinters who were dashing up the steps from their tan club-wagon, and got the door for them. “Hello, Midwinters one and all!” he greeted when they were all safely inside. “Hi,” said Lara. Lilac waved, over Summer’s head. Mrs. Midwinter asked Ronnie how to go about cooking a pie in a Dutch oven and he gave her such detailed instructions she told him to write it down and fled inside. Ronnie chose a pew far over on the left side of the spacious church. It was Eastertide and the air was sweet with Easter lilies from the numerous flowers arranged about the altar. The crucifix above the tabernacle had been temporarily replaced by a tiny statue of the Risen Jesus, and the statues were all unveiled and the life-size crucifix wore a banner of white gauze draped over both arms, while on the opposite side a blue canopy with a representation of the Tomb beneath a brown cross blocked one of the side altars. He noticed with some delight the regal young girl with the long straight hair was sitting a few pews ahead of him. The bulletin insert this week was about common terms used in the new liturgy. Ronnie chuckled as he looked at some of them. “Liturgy” was good, as well as “communion”, but “damnation”? Did that have to be defined?? Could it be that Catholics today did not know “consecration”?? And weren’t “sin” and “chalice” obvious to any Catholic? “It’s a sad sorry state when self-evident terms have to be taught to grown Catholics.” he muttered. The new liturgy had been a long-awaited project. A “new translation” of the Missal had been rumored about for nearly ten years, but it was only until last year that the US bishops finally stopped stalling and approved the final version to be sent to Pope Benedict XVI. It was scheduled to be implemented on the 1st Sunday of Advent this year, and from samples of the wording, had transformed the plain and sometimes banal formulations of the ‘70s English translation into more solemn and traditional expressions. After Mass the regal girl stood up, gathered her wraps with a stately deliberation, and genuflected with a gracious dignity. She had a brown dress and a grey sweater, with a large black umbrella hanging by its’ hooked handle from one arm. Her long straight hair was also brown, and she had a strange face, willowy and rounded, a faint perpetual smile as if she held some serene and joyful secret to herself. Her manner was deliberate and measured, and so gracious as to almost seem studied. “Hi, Moriah.” he said, falling into step beside her. “Hello, Ronnie. How are you doing.” she said, giving him a quiet but somehow young smile. She spoke in a most peculiar intonation, measured and regal, with a downward inflection at the end of every sentence. It was as if she was practicing for something, or acting out a mask, to conceal what truly lay beneath. “I just got done moving to Burrville.” he said. “Did you really. That’s very nice.” she answered, with her young, dreamy smile and her queenlike tone. “Did you have any trouble.” Ronnie grew grim-faced. “Somewhat.” “You should not be afraid. You are under a very strong protection.” “Really.” he said, looking fixedly at her. They reached the vestibule and blessed themselves with holy water, and Moria opened her umbrella while Ronnie threw on his coat. “Yes, really. Stronger than you could know.” They opened the door and headed down the steps. “All Catholics have great power against evil.” “I wish it worked at the right times.” he muttered. “Our religion is not a good-luck charm.” Moria said as they headed down the church drive. Rain drummed on her umbrella. “To be efficacious, sacramental must be used with faith. And we cannot expect to cast out demons if we do not use the Name of Jesus.” “Does the Name of Jesus quench fire?” Ronnie said sardonically, and felt bad at once. “The Name of Jesus has power against all activities of the devil.” Moria stated. “Did you bike here.” “No, I drove.” said Ronnie with a start. She inclined her head and walked on, and he headed a little absently toward his truck. Lara Midwinter looked around the church a little irritably as she came out from the bathroom. She had wanted to ask Ronnie if he had heard from Arheled recently. But there was no sign of him, and she helped her mom herd the younger ones into the van with a grumpy feeling. The rain ended by evening and it became wonderfully soft and damp and misty. The little ones were all out playing in the puddles, but Lara went for a walk down by the river. It was a typical quiet spring Sunday in Riverton. The river ran brown and high under the bridge. Fog held the mountains above the village hostage. Everything was green and black. “What is it you wish, Starmaiden?” Arheled asked quietly. His low voice seemed to vibrate in the ground. “Does the Quest of the Nine Hills have anything to do with the Stars?” Lara blurted. “Who is Daslenga? Why does he bear the Herald…?” “So many questions.” sighed Arheled. “So many problems. Everything is connected, Lara. I cannot describe the picture until I have painted the borders, nor could you comprehend it unless you can identify the shapes that move within it. Reality is a complicated pattern, Lara, of which you see only a few end-threads at a time, totally irrelevant to your eyes. But as the roots of the threads become clear with the searching, so too does their interrelation slowly dawn on the searchers. Do not be like the fools who hunt for a “theory of everything”, a single overarching formula that binds gravity and relativity, light and chaos theory and all the limbs and branches of reality, into a single comprehension.” “For everything comes out of God!” exclaimed Lara. “And if the different branches of physical creation represent different aspects of God’s personality as expressed in His creations, then they will have no unifying principle until one traces it back to Him!” “God is the unifying principle,” agreed Arheled, “even as one and the same mind can produce stone walls and paintings, songs and writings, weaving and pottery, arts unlike in every way and incapable of being unified save in the mind that produced them. You are indeed intelligent.” “Not intelligent enough, I guess, or I would see the correlation between a grotto, a grapevine, a glyphic and a graven rock—“ “Aside from the letter G!” chortled Arheled. Lara flapped her hand at him. “You know what I mean.” “I do.” Arheled concurred. “But beware, Lara, of trying to know everything before its’ revelation. That was the error that he made in the singing of Creation, of trying to comprehend all of reality before the song was completed and the Themes introduced by which alone would much of it make sense. And his reasons were good at first, for he was lord of Creation and wished to rule it rightly, but in his impatience he refused to admit there was anything he could not understand. And so when he was faced with the Mystery of the Incarnation, he rejected it.” “Who is he?” Lara said, a coldness growing in her at the enigmatic words. “The rider of the darkness.” Arheled replied. “The causer of chaos. The primeval disorderer. He who arose in Might.” “Is that the purpose of the Six? You said on Temple Fell that the Five Churches were forts erected to hold the North against him. But Travel said she spoke with him on Coe Av—north of Winsted. How can he be kept out of the North if he’s already passed the Churches?” She was a little startled when Arheled bent over with laughter, slapping his leg as he roared. “Oh, Lara!” he wheezed. “You talk as if he was a physical being, with a body of matter!” “I know he isn’t,” she snapped, “but what’s the point of forts if he’s already passed them?” Arheled, still chortling, drew breath and sobered down. “You don’t seem to grasp the situation, Star.” he said. “Every spirit has power, or strength to act upon other beings. Chaos found he could put his strength into mater, infect the particles, pollute the forms. That is why matter corrupts and decays premature. That is why he is called Chaos. His song marred it in its’ singing, and when it was called into being he polluted all the rest, save for Valinor alone. But his strength was not in him and he was weakened and chained, his intellectual essence exiled from the worlds.” “Yes, I know, but then why are we so worried?” Arheled gazed into the river. “Because when the heavens were changed, the Door of Night opened. That was the cause of the great disaster. He came back. He could not be cast out again, for the guard was bowed with weariness. And the earth darkened, and sacred history passed as the world fell under the unseen kingship of Chaos. And even as he established his last details, ruling the world via Rome, there was an earthquake in Creation, for he had executed God.” “And that chained him.” “That sent him out beyond the circles of the world once again, and the Door of Night was locked. But the ancient world and the laws of twilight were passing away as the Light spread, and the strength of Chaos which he disseminated throughout matter, is leaking out of matter and back into him. That is why the Door of Night again is open. He is in the world, but because he has no body he does not walk upon it; and he cannot resume a body until all his power returns. When that may be, I cannot tell. Then he will walk up from the South to overthrow the North, for in the North that he once ruled is where the Road walks against him, and it is against such a hour that I caused the Five to be constructed.” Lara nodded. “So he can poke his finger in here and there, but can’t get his whole hand in.” “To some extent, yes.” Arheled agreed. “For the dragon hates the woman, and makes war on all her offspring.” “Is Chaos a dragon?” Arheled laughed. “Is Beelzebul Satan, and is Satan Lucifer? There are many of the Nine Choirs in Hell, but their leader was not of any Choir. He was supreme. Twelve wings tradition draws on him, yet only six upon the Seraphim. But the Father of Dragons is no less damned than Chaos.” “Who is the Father of Dragons? I thought literal physical dragons were fairy tales.” “But fairy tales are themselves an attempt to portray one aspect of reality.” replied Arheled. “You believe in dinosaurs because you see their bones; but who assembled the bones? Who is to say that because some skeletons were found complete, therefore every other skeleton must follow those designs? Who are you to say what did and did not walk upon this earth?” He went on in a less severe tone. “Dragons were real. They survived the Flood, but not the Church. Demonic creatures cannot abide the Light, nor the warriors of the Light, the Catholic laymen who followed St. George. They are all dead. Except for he who begot them.” It was so dim around them now that Lara could barely see his face. “Is he a devil, or a beast? I thought demons have no bodies.” “Not as you do, no.” Arheled’s voice answered. “But they delight in aping and in mocking the Lord, and they are quite capable of making imitation embodiments, to copy and ridicule the supreme Incarnation. Such was the Father of Dragons.” He lifted one great arm. Black against the pale clouds it loomed. The night sky shone through as great rents appeared in the cloud cover, until large patches of it were bare. There was the Herald, high already; soon he would only rise in the day. Below him and behind him was a long quadruped figure, with four swinging legs and a short stemlike head. “Who is that?” “Leo, of course.” she answered. “No,” replied Arheled, “Leo is that way. This is part of Canis Major, the Great Dog. But there are many more stars in him than are needed to make him; and as you see something else marches beneath him. Something misinterpreted by men since his stars fled so far they can barely be seen; something that walks beneath, as he walked then. Look at him closer, Lara, if you would see his true sign.” The faint stars below the bright star Sirius began to grow brighter, as if her eyes were improving. She gasped. Shapes began t appear in the stars, as gleam related itself to gleam in her focused eyes, as if unseen lines were drawn between them. Other long lines thrust out around the stemlike head, branching from a central point; and from the high humped tail reached two lines like spread wings. “There are seven heads.” said Arheled. “That is the sign that appeared in the sky. That which hides beneath the Wolf is the Father of Dragons.” The phone rang in Forest’s house. He heard it from up in his room and waited. Sure enough a stampede soon followed: Dad’s heavy tread pounding down the stairs, Bell’s quick patter hurrying in from the kitchen, and then Mom’s light steps from the other direction. Bell must have got to it first because he heard her sing, “Hi, Ronnie!...Oh, sure, he’s right here. Dad, it’s for you.” “Hello, Hunter Light here.” said Dad. Forest came out and slipped downstairs, in time to hear Ronnie’s deep cutting voice from the old speaker. He was saying something about a numeral 2 with the top closed to form a loop. “That sounds…wait, let me draw that.” Hunter drew a on the notepad. “Hmmm…Greek has a lowercase of the letter Delta that looks similar, but only if you hold it upside down and to a mirror. Inverse Delta…interesting…Wait, what about Armenian? I just remembered, the Armenian alphabet has a symbol like this. Let me get to the computer…dang, the cord won’t reach. Be right back.” Forest picked up the receiver. “Uh…Ronnie?” “Ahoy, Forest. Yes, I was asking your dad about that odd 2 I saw engraved in the date outside the McColl cabin on Ward’s Hill. Have you seen anything of Arheled?” “Yeah. Um. I’ll send you an email, I guess.” “Yeah, I know you’re not too good at phone talking. Did he talk to you?” “I’ll write it.” said Forest. “Um, here’s Dad.” “Ronnie?” said Hunter Light into the phone. “I found it. The 27th letter, Jheh, in Armenian has a lowercase that is a 2 with the hook closed to a loop. It represents the voiced postalveolar affricate in Old and Eastern Armenian, and the aspirated voiceless affricate in Western. In the Armenian numbering system it means 900, and is usually given the equivalence of J or Dj. Basically, the sound produced when your tongue stops the air flow then directs it through the sharp edge of the teeth along the center of the tongue.” “Ddd—jj—yes, I think I get that much.” said Ronnie. “But what is lower-case Delta used for? Does it have value?” “''Delta'' indicates a sound very like dh, or '' th'' in that. But the lower-case Delta is used as a symbol in calculus, the relative electronegativity of different atoms in a molecule, the declination of a celestial body in the equatorial coordinate system of astronomy—“ “Hold it.” said Ronnie. “That might be important. What is '' declination''?” “Equatorial coordinates divide the celestial sphere along an equator and latitude system based off of Earth’s latitude; basically, a line cuts the celestial dome equivalent to Earth’s equator, as if the latitude of Earth were projected onto the sky. Declination measures degrees north or south of the celestial equator, while '' hour angles'' measure degrees east and west—horizontal.” “I’ve seen lower-case deltas marking stars.” “Yes, it’s often used as a numbering system for constellations. Thus a constellation may have several named stars like Rigel or Vega, and minor ones labeled, say, Leo Alpha, Leo Beta, all the way to Leo Delta and past. In Greek, each letter has a numerical value. Delta means 6.” “The funny thing is, Hunter, that Armenian lowercase Jheh occurred inside a date, 1927.” “Interesting.” murmered Hunter. “It could mean 19 Declension 7 hour—is that what you mean?” “What stars are located 19 degrees north or south of the celestial equator along the 7:00 line?” “North…hold on, let me get my star chart.” He returned in a minute, brandishing a star map still trailing tape from each corner where he tore it off the wall of his study. “Let me see—north would put it at the legs of the Pollux figure of the Gemini twins, but there’s no star at the actual confluence. South, though, we have the Canis Major—the Big Dog—“ “I am the Big Dog!” howled Ronnie. “Huh?” “Oh sorry, Regina Doman quote. One guy was yelling at his dogs, ‘I am the Big Dog!’ So, Canis Major?—“ “Uh, yes, in fact right at the confluence of 19° south and 7 hours west we have Sirius a little north and Beta Canis Majoris—the dog’s right foreleg—still in the 7th hour but about thirty-five minutes toward the 6th hour. That’s just behind Lepus, with Orion north by east.” “The river drowns the rabbit.” said Ronnie. “That marks the headwaters of the River Eridanus—Daslenga!” “What are you talking about?” “Sorry, Hunter, I’m just all hyper. I know what the Sign of Ward’s Hill means! So, is there any mythological or other information on Beta Canis whatever?” “Yes, it has the Arabic name of Murzim, which is translated as ‘Announcer’ or ‘Herald’ because it goes before Sirius.” '' '' '' Sent: May 16th, 2011, from rondowendo@yahoo.com. '' '' Hullo everyone. '' '' I just found out the Sign of Ward’s Hill. It is really important. That number 2 with the loop closed, if you write it upside down and hold it to a mirror, it’s an inverse lowercase Delta (Greek) which is used to indicate celestial latitude. So the date 19(delta)7 yields coordinates of 19 degrees south of the celestial equator by 7 “hours” west. This points to the constellation Canis Major, near Sirius, but closer on the line is Beta Canis Majoris, named Murzim in Arabic—''“Herald.”'' This star is just behind Lepus or the River Daslenga that bears up the Herald. I think it marks the headwaters of Daslenga, as well as the actual place of the real Herald that the constellation Herald signifies. He would come, in other words, from the star Murzim. '' '' The Delta has a numerical value of 6, but the symbol 2 with a closed loop is also the lowercase Armenian letter Jheh, which indicates the sound “dj” (Delta is for “th”) and has a value of 900. And Forest, that was a super-interesting conversation you had with Arheled. Thanks for writing. '' '' Ronmond Wendtho '' '' '' '' Replied May 17th from travellanet58@yahoo.com '' '' Hi Ronnie. '' '' So apparently you’re not satisfied with Numenorean ruins from funny cracks in the bedrock, now just because some cement post has a little kink in the 2 it means a star named Herald? '' '' Sorry. Just playing Devil’s Advocate. Somebody has to keep you anchored to reality. Any thoughts on the other signs? '' '' '' '' Replied May 18th, 2011 from rondowendo@yahoo.com '' '' Hi Travel. '' '' You do know you’re not trying my cause for canonization, do you? '' '' I did some research on the name Brooke found cut in the rock up on Wallens Hill, Robert (or Robeyt) Ovitt 19 46. Funny thing is, that whole area is town property since long before 1946. There were said to be community gardens at one point but that must be decades grown over. But there was only one Ovitt in Winsted at the time, on E. Mountain Av farther down Wallens Hill, and his name is not Robert. He seems to have no kids either, and moves to Vermont in the 50s. So either it was done by another Ovitt from a neighboring town, done by this Ovitt in memory of Robert (maybe a relative), or carved by someone else for unknown reasons. There is a Phonecian letter Y, like a rough aslant Y, meaning W. It has a numerical value of 6, just like Delta. Now Brooke says that the date, 1946, was carved with a space, 19 46. Was it because of a rough patch, Brooke? '' '' '' '' Replied May 18th, 2011 from travellanet58@yahoo.com: '' '' Canonization? I don’t get you. '' '' Notice how the 9s are stacking up? 9 Hills, 1927, 1946, your Armenian letter has a value of 900, and as a Delta it has 6, and so does your Phonecian W (inverted 9!)…1790…and you said Arheled mentioned adding “the three elders” to us Six, which makes 9. '' '' '' '' Replied May 18th, 2011, from riverbrooke537k@hotmail.com: '' '' Um, I think there was a rough patch…I’m not sure…You think the date being separated is significant? Does that funny Y show up on star charts, too? '' '' '' '' Sent to travellanet58@yahoo.com from rondowendo@yahoo.com, May 18th: '' '' Sorry, Travel. In the process of determining whether a given holy man lived a life of heroic virtue and should be canonized, one official acted as the “devil’s advocate” and argued against canonization, to act as a test and safeguard against cult-like adulation. I heard the position has been discontinued recently, though. So “playing devil’s advocate” is to emphasise the negative aspects of something, even apart from personal opinion, in order to provide balance to the situation. So I was joking that you were part of the process of trying my cause for canonization. '' '' So far it’s a sequence: 5 villages, 5 churches, 6 of us; 9 Hills, 7 and 2; 9 Signs of the Hills: 1946, a Phonecian letter 6, an inverse Delta 6 which is also Armenian 900, 1927, 1790…and mention of the 3 Elders, who haven’t been introduced yet, to make 9 of us Children of the Rd. Of course, having 1927 and 1790, almost reverses of each other, may also be significant, I can’t tell. '' '' Oh, and I did a search. A table of solar declination gives a celestial latitude of 19 degrees north by 47, on July 25th. There’s a 9 south by 46, but that’s for Feb. 24th. So the date July 25th? Oh, I don’t know. Likely a dead end. '' '' The Phonecian Y was transposed into the Greek capital letter Upsilon(U), which is also Y-shaped. The lowercase is (u). This does actually appear on star charts, having a value of 400, but nothing significant seems to be labeled with it; except maybe some curves of Eridanus. '' '' Ronmond Wendtho '' '' '' Rain pattered outside Forest’s bedroom, a steady damp sound that wove through his slumber and echoed at the back of his dreams. It had been raining for nearly a week, cool and humid and gloomy. The rain-sound echoed dimly around him as he stood, gazing into the darkness. Slowly he saw something walking in the shadow, a vast shape, a hill with feet coming toward him, and he could only see it by the withering light of its’ piercing, cold eyes. He felt no fear, though he could not move: only a tense suspended watchfulness: it seemed so remote and distant and long ago. Fire leaped up in the darkness as the Gods fought the walking hill; but he was mightier than they, and he walked as he wished and where he trod ruin followed. Mountains were crushed as the Gods pulled them up. Seas broke in on lands and dry earth was stamped into seafloor. Then a dreadful roaring boom echoed from all around, huge, boisterous, roaring like the laughter of the very heavens themselves. The hill of burning shadow turned in tremendous majesty and unutterable contempt; but the laughter roared harder and louder, rocking him like giant blows, and the Gods leaped upon him again, and the hill vanished into a streak of fleeing shadow hiding behind a wall of blue glass.'' '' '' “Thrice bounded and thrice freed, thrice exiled, and now thrice returned.” said the voice in the shadows, like a murmer of the background. Light was growing. Forest saw for a brief moment a green so vivid and violent it swept him back like a mighty wind, saw it by two stationary suns that sat upon mountain-posts in north and south; but in the shadows at the edge of the earth lurked the eyes in the darkness, and stain spread from them, slowly seeping through matter and sickening the green. And Forest knew then who he was. There was a thunderblast of power. A mighty chain all red and queer green snaked out of the heavens and dragged lashing behind it the lord of Chaos himself, and the Gods strode triumphant on all sides. Then a throne appeared, a circle of thrones, wrought of gold fire chained and made firm and contained in gold metal, and figures of power sat in majesty upon them, and on his hands and knees before them the lord of Chaos ate the dust and pretended to be good. And unable to comprehend the depth of his evil, the Gods lifted the chain, to walk at large in heaven and poison paradise. Then Trees fell, and Darkness spouted heavenward, and the rider of the darkness sneered as he passed. Then towers of iron and pillars of flame and stone loomed before Forest, even as a huge black dragon fell with slow inevitable terror prone upon them; stone bent and fire spilt, and fire splashed, and rock leaped like a fountain as the very mountains crumpled up like paper beneath his ruin. And up over the corpse of the monster came the figures of the Gods in tremendous majesty and power, and like a leash behind they came dragging helpless a mere lump of earth, that lord so proud and terrible now weak as any troll; and they dragged him over sea and land and cut off his head, and like a black wind they cast his spirit, still wrapped in the chain, out behind the wall of glass. All went dark. Slowly amid the vastness of blackness shapes began to grow visible, as if Forest had become able to see in the dark. It was cold, and empty, and utterly quiet. Slowly a pair of leering faces came into view above him, long and muzzled, beards pendant from reptilian chins; they were dragons, crouched one at either side of a lintel of a doorway. The fluted posts were of a basalt as dense and black as tar. The dragons coiled along the lintel, motionless, leering down at him; and they too were of basalt, and of a piece with the stone they perched upon. Underneath was a great dark blankness, but as the visibleness increased Forest became aware that they were gates, hewn of black crystal, and dew gleamed on them like diamonds. All around was still as dark as a covered abyss, night made solid, darkness tangible; and the great doors stood shut before him, and shadowy smoke poured in slow eternity from the dragons’ mouths, falling down the doorposts to drift steadily past Forest’s knees. There was a vast and deadly silence. This was a place where nothing happened. Lights began to grow at Forest’s back, reflected ten million times in ten million drops of dew, and turning he saw a flock of people. He had not seen them before because they had outstripped their own light, and only when they slowed did their light catch up and reach the Doors. They were mailed in silver and bore silver greaves on their skins that jutted up past the knee, and white shoulder plates of a design he had never seen. White swords were sheathed at their hips, and spears of silver were in their hands. Their hair burned, soft flames of a clear silver lifting and flickering upon their helmless scalps, but their beards were hair. Light rayed wearily from armour and body and eye, and exhaustion showed in their haughty faces. They glided forward upright upon the air instead of walking. There was a sound like the rising of a mountain, and unfolding out of the darkness a huge winged figure arose, tall and mighty, a sword of power in his hand. His face was young and serene, but in his eyes shone a great tiredness, a cumulation of ages beyond ages, a being meant to be outside of Time but bound inside it by his own ancient choice, weary with the wearing on of Time. And he said, “''What do you seek?” Then the beings of silver answered, “''We hunt the End of the World.”'' And he asked further and said, “Why do you seek it?” And they replied, '' “Because beyond the Walls at the End of the World, there is knowledge and mystery; in the Voids beyond are the secrets that we seek. For an age have we journeyed, riding the greatest limits of our power to move swiftly, and we are weary with the greatness of our search.” '' Then he said: “Such knowledge as you seek can be found in the concealed Paradise, long sundered from the Arda. Why have you not asked there?” '' And they answered: “ The Gods are jealous of knowledge.” '' '' Then he replied: ''“And for a reason. There was a doom laid on you at your placing, and it is in my thought that you are seeking for a way to circumvent it, to prevent your doom from catching you when you dare to go to war. I may not let you pass.” '' Then they frowned and drew slowly closer to him, their glow now smouldering ominously. ''“Thou art wearied, old one, we can see.” they said. '' “Thou art more wearied than are we. Ages lie heavy upon thee, but we are only travel-worn. Mighty among the lesser Gods though thou art, we are mightier than thee. Take care, old one. Open to us, or thou will rue it!” '' '' “Not the onset of the World could force open these doors, for we wrought them out of the arheled '' itself and set a command upon them that nothing can break.” ''answered the winged figure. '' “Nor canst thou break them. Nor canst thou break ''me!”'' '' “And dost thou not know whom we are?!” '' thundered the silver beings all as one. “We are the Stars!” '' All frames of reference suddenly ceased. Whirling cascades of twisting shapes of white with blackness and silver at their hearts; great lightning-stabs of thunderous red, blinding flame and twisting dark and fire of blue and white and dreadful argent, turned the world inside out and upside down. Then all at once there was stillness. The shapes became stationary, condensing back into the forms they first had worn. Twenty-nine Stars stood erect and victorious before the leering dragons of graven black stone, and adrift and limp in the airless vacuum lay the guardian, flesh and wings shredded and floating slowly apart, a misty scarlet essence showing the defeated and naked God. '' “You cannot open those doors.” '' he gasped. '' “They open to a mystic word alone, and not even I know it.” And the Stars smiled upon him. “Oh, mean you this word by any chance?” '' Then turning to the doors they stretched out their hands, and as one they said, '' “Arheledenvendonwendo!” '' And with a low and terrible riaring of hinges unimaginable and portals beyond guessing, the Doors of Night swung outwards, and stopped when perpendicular to the posts with a boom like the world ending. Beyond it there was Nothing. An unbeing, not a vacuum but an utter absence of Anything at all. It was not even black, for black is a color and has something positive about it; it was a hole, it was emptiness. It was the Void. But as they looked out from the threshold of the World, they saw that there was a bridge thrown out through Nothing, and they saw the Necklace of the Worlds, each one a globe amid the Void, and far above, over the Worlds, in a dimension and place utterly separate from spatial terms of up and down, was a mountain of gleaming white. But even as they gaped at the realities so huge of comprehension even their minds boggled, they were aware that the Void was not entirely empty. A wind of blackness swept around them, huge chains of burnt red and rusted green swinging from it, and they were bowled over like logs before a raging flood, and the gigantic flat mockery of the laughter of that spirit lingered like an echo in the populated vacuum. The shattered shreds of the raiment of form came together and were donned, and the guardian spirit stood up again, still battered from his defeat. Stumbling to the Doors of Night he leaned upon the mighty portals and said to the sprawling Stars, ''“Now hast thou let in the sign of thy death and the cause of thy doom, the lord of Chaos himself, who from without the World sent his whispers into thee, that thou might come here and betray thyselves in thine own thirst for what is hidden. Go, therefore, and look for what you have sought!” '' And with a sudden flare of power he thrust the nine-and-twenty Stars through the open Doors of Night, and slammed it behind them, and they were adrift in Nothing, matter left out beyond the realm of matter and unprotected by commands, and their bodies began to scatter and their power to leak from them; for their curse was coming upon them, and that for which they had risked their very lives was happening in vain; they found no knowledge in the Void of Unbeing, they found only death. And they died, and their bodies and their power exploded into gas and dust and fire, and Nothing took it, and it was quenched, to adhere as dews of energy to the Walls of the World, trying in vain to pass back within. A great flash of Light filled the Universe—filled all Universes—filled the White Mountain above the Universes—and the Doors swung open of themselves. Out through them hurtled Chaos bound, the chain wrapped around him, and before he could recover the Doors had slammed. Then a terrible thing happened. Somehow Forest understood centuries were passing, a thousand years maybe, and as he watched he saw something like a black wind passing out through the Walls of the World, and the wind funnelled in upon the waiting evil, feeding him, making him stronger; for it was himself, leaking back into him. And he strode to the Doors of Night and spoke the secret word, and the Doors of Night opened. The sleepless guard leaped up, many fell spirits, and the Light had refreshed them and they were young in strength, and they gainstood his advance. But the Lord of Chaos was mightier than they, and he forced back the fearsome spirits with the strength that had been his, and he entered the World, and eluding their grasp lurked as a dark cloud, brooding over the Earth that he was not yet tangible enough to grasp. It filled the eyes of Forest, it filled the mind of Forest, and he struggled violently in the tangled webs of the darkness, as its’ rider pulled them tighter and smiled as he did… He woke up only when his struggles with the tangled bedclothes caused him to fall out of bed. The rainy week came to an end with two days in which the sun actually shone for a while, although in vengeance it still rained each night. Saturday dawned bright and warm, only to cloud up and rain again just as Winsted’s Pet Parade was beginning and it was too late to call it off. The leaves on the trees were thick and green now, although still with a fresh newness in their hue, and the lilacs hung thick and fragrant from their bushes. They were all different hues in the planted flowerbeds; Bell counted a deep maroon, violet, a flat “blue” lilac, a darker purple, and of course white and usual warm lilac, in the Meadow Lane neighborhood alone. Professor Light picked some for his new bride almost every day, to her blushing confusion; Forest loved to see his mom that way. In the damp mossy glens of Case Mt, the leeks still lingered; and as this was likely the end of the season, Ronnie took Travel on a leek-picking expedition that Sunday. “So what exactly is a leek?” she wanted to know as they left her car by the side of Winsted Rd and walked up it. The King’s Beer building sat on the left up against the mountain and the Still River swamp—remarkably high with the rain—lay below on the right. The railroad grade ran just beside the road along the swamp border. “Forest onion.” Ronnie explained. “Also called ramp, of all things. They come out for maybe a month and then the leaves go yellow and vanish, and a week later you can’t even find the place. Very good, though; you can stew the greens and treat the bulbs the same as onions.” A small stream poured down a rocky wall where the driveway of King’s Beer met the road, and Ronnie led her up this. Travel quickly realized why he’d made her bring her boots; the only way up the steep bank was pretty much in the watercourse, which formed a winding ladder of mossy rocks and ledges slushy with green growths. Soon they were on a rolling terrace and the stream flowed in pools of moss among great mossy roots of hemlock and birch. It was so green here, and damp, and glorious. “It’s like a jungle, with all the fern.” Travel said. “Tropical, maybe, but not a jungle.” demurred Ronnie. “Jungles are tangled masses of growth. I’ve seen some laurel jungles around here that would qualify and then some, but not these.” “Whatever.” she said. They crossed a disused road that forded the stream and rolled on over the lumpy upland, lost and forgotten among the new hemlocks that walled it and were rooting in it: a logging road, Ronnie guessed. The stream curved steadily leftwards around a low isolated hump of rock that ran ridgelike downhill to the right. It entered a region of monster rocks, chunks of stone like ruined hills crushed at all angles atop each other, embedded in deep moss and ages of leaves, pale-green bladderworts covering their faces. Fern and odd forest herbs grew on the flat areas and in the pockets, and enormous ancient birch—whether silver, grey or yellow was beyond telling—stood upon giant winding roots like snakes. Caves showed dark in angles where rocks met, and the peculiar gargle of underground water marked the stream. Following its’ course Ronnie and Travel scrambled up increasingly bizarre terrain, at one point climbing through a rugged gallery under a mammoth stone. Everything was damp and drippy, though there were a few dry spots elsewhere, Ronnie said; “that’s why they call these Robber’s Caves.” One of them had been used as stash for a bank robbery a hundred years ago. They left the great rocks below and climbed onto a sort of pause in the mountainslope, which on the left became a narrowing pocket behind a ridge. Ahead the stream poured stairlike down a footlike slope of rocks and old soil, above which was a sheer wall. Climbing up they saw that the stream flowed in a chute along the base of this from the left, and rounding the corner they reached one of the prettiest places Travel had ever seen. “Ramp Falls.” announced Ronnie. Down an ascending stair of sheer walls covered deep in moss and worts, a beautiful cateract splashed like white rain. Among a tumbled area of deeply-overgrown rocks near its’ feet were thick patches of long-leaved plants hanging downhill, a glossy greeny-yellow. Old birch stood among them. “There are a lot of other patches,” Ronnie said as he unlimbered his backpack and took out some plastic bags and a trowel, “but this one’s the best. Okay, we want this patch to survive, so only pick every other one. Look for big ones with three leaves and none of these spur-like reproductive growths: they’re the best. Grasp them by the base and keep a steady pull; they break easy enough and then you have to pry the bulb out.” Travel found leek-picking a rather intriguing occupation. The woods onions had broad spear-like leaves, thick and somewhat fleshy, usually two but sometimes three on the oldest bulbs, narrowing to a single stalk and a tapering white bulb, long and never more than an inch wide, buried a few inches into the thick mould. Often the bulbs grew sideways. She kept breaking them at first until she got the hang of it. Many of them had slender stamens or something poking out between the leaves, with a sort of cap on the end, and Ronnie guessed these were it’s reproductive organs and had her leave those alone. “We want them to seed.” They picked for several hours until Ronnie said the patch was done. The day, cool and cloudy at first, was warmer and a bit sticky. “You want to stop by my place and fry some of these?” Ronnie asked. “Sounds like fun.” said Travel. “But I can’t stay too long.” They made their way back down the damp, beautiful green mountain in a mood of quiet happiness. “This is so much different from the last time we were on Case Mt.” Travel laughed all of a sudden. “I’m trying to forget about that.” Ronnie groaned. At his house they cut the leaves off the bulbs and washed them, then stewed them in a big pot. They smelled oniony with a curious subtle flavor of lettuce. They resembled thick spinach when they were done. Travel found them extraordinarily chewy; she pretty much had to masticate them into a ball and swallow whole. But with butter and salt, even the broth was delicious. Ronnie sliced the bulbs and fried them in oil. They tasted like mild onions. Travel told Ronnie when she left that now she was addicted. '' Blue halls wavering with flame. '' Lara Midwinter slowly blinked at the ceiling. Her tired mind rambled for a moment, as her eyes grew heavy, and closed again. ''Blue. The walls were night-blue. Great collonaded poticos of a much brighter blue were all around her. She was tall, beautiful, conscious of her beautifulity; conscious of her gown that drifted diamondine and gleaming around her as she paced; of her gleaming hair, combed with fresh light until it flared as white and radiant as sunshine; of the sky-gems her lover had forged for her from solid air and raindrops which she wore ringing her breasts. She smiled as she caught gleams from her bare silver arms as they swung to her stride. Silver patterns embedded into the coppices flared to life as she approached, curling, pointed, mysterious: the signs of the Stars. '' '' She tripped swiftly up the steps at the end of the arcade and paced on along the air that floored this, as it floored all their dwellings. Why did Arcturus wish to see her now, so close to evening-rise, she did not know. But she smiled to herself as she glided down the hall, for she was beautiful, and she was Star. Nothing harmed the Stars. Nothing concerned the Stars. Nothing save themselves. '' '' She was no longer alone upon the colonnade. Arcturus was pacing steadily beside her. Like all Star-lords he was shod, his silver feet concealed in gleaming boots of silver, and diamond and silver shone his robes and raiment. He had brushed his hair with fresh light as well, and this pleased her, for it meant that she was beautiful enough to impress him. '' '' “Sophia,” he greeted, “''Solenta enStalonda.” '' '' “''Solenta enStalonda'', my lord,” she returned. She was pleased to hear her voice, rich and tingling and dusky; it was unlike most lennalli. '' '' “Walk with me, fair one, do I pray upon you.” '' '' “I pray you returning, I am most willing.” '' '' They walked upon the darksome air in silence for some ways. She turned her eyes toward him now and anon, liking the way her eyes cast reflections on the dark silver of his cheek. '' '' “Is my lady yet well?” '' '' She was apprehensive at once. He had asked this more and more often as the month aged and the belly of Charosa the Wandering Star grew, and Sophia handmaid to the great Shewanderer herself had always answered as she did now: “She does well, my lord.” '' '' “Does the Choir yet ring whom the father is?” '' '' “My lady is unsure herself, my lord. She cares not for how may ring the Choir.” '' '' “Is her laughter as it was?” There was a wistfulness in his voice that made Sophia look at him in sudden glee: she was certain now, the Lord Arcturus was in love with the Lady Charosa. “It is like the rippling of falling light.” she answered. '' '' Arcturus gave a smile that caused the air in front of him to shine. “I draw great comfort from such details, Sophia. My rays bend with the weight of my worries.” '' '' “I would gladly straight them, Arcturoha.” '' '' “So you would, indeed. You know of the shadow that hangs on the Choir. Angar has been speaking strange words. Nor have Chelendar and his piercers sent any messages into my thought, and I am disturbed, for a day hence they were in sight of the vanished Doors. Upon their mission depends everything, Sophiala.” '' '' “I am dark, my lord.” '' '' “Ah, I have not told you why they left! They were sent by me an age ere today after they pierced the symbol on the 5th arcade and comprehended it. It told them of a possibility. That possibility must be made bright and comprehended, for the possessor of it would be freed from worries. But now I am afraid, for the dangers they face are many, and I cannot send more, for an age would pass before they came there.” He looked around at the deepening twilight. “But Shining is nearly here, and I dislike delay.” '' '' “And must I haste to attend my lady Charosa.” '' '' “I please to you, Sophiala.” he said softly. “Please you not to gossip of our talk. I will know if you have.” '' '' “I please to you, my lord Arcturus. I have been silent. To enjoy your pleasure is sufficient.” '' '' “Your pleasure consoles me.” He bent and kissed her on the lips, and she flowed her mouth around his, shining three times brighter at the sign of affection. “May I visit you in the middle-day?” he said when their lips had resumed normal position. '' '' “My walls are always soft to you, Arcturoha.” '' '' He smiled on her. “I will enjoy your pleasure.” '' '' Then he bowed and sped skywards like a flash of silver flame, until another gleam was added to the gathering stars in the evening sky. She kissed her hand to him. '' “Travel!” the imperious voice of Grandmother Lane called from the detached house. Travel shut her eyes and sighed. She might have known she couldn’t escape her old relative’s eagle watch. “Hello, Grandmother.” she said, walking up the steps. “Hello, Travel.” smiled the old woman. “Where have you been lately? I haven’t talked with you in days!” “Work, mostly. And friends.” Grandmother Lane gazed at her sidelong. “And the Six? How do they go?” Travel felt uncomfortable. “We helped Ronnie move a while back. And we saw his landladies.” “Yes, I remember you told me.” the old woman nodded. She opened the cookie jar and pushed it across the coffee table to Travel, then picked up the bellows and pumped away at the fire until it blazed properly. It was an old affair, the leather covering the hinges entirely crumbled away and the hinges on top beginning to wobble. Travel liked the weird wheezing sound it made when she forced the handles open and the tough leather sack inflated. The bottom side had two ventilation holes like eyes. With a sigh Grandmother Lane lowered herself into the armchair. “But what happened the Sunday following? You came home pale and haunted and stiff as a board. And I waited for you to speak of it, but you never did.” '' Absent sun and tearlike stars '' '' Torn away from where they are… '' Travel felt herself start to shake, as if she’d stayed too long in cold water. “Black lightning.” she whispered. “They hunted us. They were laughing. We ran and ran and we couldn’t escape them. We plunged through the forest and when we could no longer run, they appeared before us. Fire was in their hands. They could do whatever they wanted. We had no powers. We were helpless, Grandmother. Helpless!” Grandmother Lane said nothing, but her eyes burned large and keen in her shadowed face. “I’m sorry,” said Travel, pulling herself together. “It was just…Ronnie and I were at the Fish Quarry—I did tell you about the fish, right?—and they found us. There were two of them, a big beefy bald motorcycle-guy and a golden-skinned blonde in a slut-suit and sunglasses. They shot lightning. They chased us over the mountain. Toying with us. They had us cornered. They were going to make us their…slaves, or something. One said he was Cornello, and he would make us betray the others.” “Then why are you still here?” Grandmother Lane said dryly. Travel stared into the fire. “I travelled.” Bit by bit her grandmother extracted the bizarre experience from her, and then Travel told her of Ronnie’s discoveries and Forest’s peculiar dreams, and the inscrutable conversations of Arheled. “Grandmother, what does it all mean?” Travel blurted. “What is this Road? Why does it walk?” “It may be a road,” the old woman answered, “or it may be something much more abstract, much less easy to define, as well.” “You mean like some sort of force?” “ ‘Force’ sounds too simplistic.” Grandmother Lane replied. “Too inanimate. You have the force of gravity, you have tectonic forces—but nobody speaks of Time as a mere force, for all they talk of time-machines.” “Grandmother,” said Travel suddenly, “do you remember anything about how my mom—vanished?” Grandmother Lane looked pensive. “I had hoped I would never have to tell you, child.” “Tell me what?” said Travel, a strange chill coming upon her. “About the night your mother left.” the old woman said. “It…well, you see…” She seemed to be finding it difficult to begin. “She didn’t vanish. She left.” “Is there a difference?” “Yes, one is voluntary.” her grandmother snapped. “I was dreaming—and even after seven years I still remember that dream, of being followed over odd rolling gravelly roads by a creeping something with red long bodies you never really saw very clearly, until it came over the hilltop in front of me and leered in my face, and I couldn’t stop walking forward…” “But what '' was '' it?” “It was a dragon. But that’s not important. The funny thing is, I had my window open because it was a hot night, and even while I was sluggishly moving toward the dragon I could see my room around me and even knew I was going so slow because of the bedspread, and your mom was talking to the dragon. I never actually saw her, I only heard her voice behind me. “She seemed to know the dragon, even love it, the way she used endearments, and it was talking to her as well. They spoke of terrible things. Things I could barely understand but knew at once were not quite right. They mentioned an earthcircler which has itself all to itself. There was something about the energy within and the God of the self, and the dominance of mental force and the ascent to power. And I came awake, Travel, for there was no more dragon in front of me, but the voices went on, under my window, out in the laurels. I lay there—you know how your mind sometimes, even when awake, continues the dream and you never fully realize reality is around you and lie on, dreaming-awake? It was like that. And then I must have gone back to sleep, for I only remember waking up in the morning.” “I think it was just a dream.” said Travel. Grandmother Lane shrugged. “I think she was talking to someone,” she said tartly, “but you can see why I’ve never told you until now! But that’s why I say she left. Eloped with someone, most likely. Rufus wouldn’t hear a word, and the police?...Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to have a young man barely able to grow a beard listen gravely and lurking in his lips is the condescending contempt of a grown-up patiently putting up with a senile child? I got up and stalked inside. I’ve never tried telling policemen anything since.” Lara Midwinter was working the cash register today and hating it. The rain had let up at last, only for it to become so warm and muggy a toad would be happy—at least, that was how Brandan put it. Just before kissing Heather right in front of everyone. She ignored the goings-on as usual and headed up front. Now it was 2:00. She could tell without even glancing at the cash register because there was a door-to-door line of teenagers and schoolkids, girls in suntops and sandals chewing gum and talking very loudly either into cell phones or to boyfriends, and all sorts of boys from dark and studious to football types with big chests and bigger voices. It was a whirling madhouse trying to keep up with all the orders. “Hey, you must be new here, I’ve never seen you at the register before.” Lara looked up and saw a god. He had a firm brown handsome face, and she didn’t know what it was, whether the way the eyes were o the way he smiled, but she’d never felt so flustered by a guy in all her life. “Can I take your order, please?” The great formula that formed the refrain of all cashiers was almost a refuge at that moment. “OH, c’mon, I don’t even know your name—“ “Then you must be blind as a brickbat ‘cause it’s pinned right here on my uniform.” Why she was so snappish she couldn’t fathom; something to do with being thrown off balance. “Lara. Well, nice to meet you, Lara. I’m Kevin.” “And what would you like to order, Kevin?” she said quickly before he could hit on her any further. He looked a little put out. Evidently he was used to girls crawling all over him when he winked. “I’ll have a McMayo with extra hot sauce, a double quarter pounder with cheese, and an apple pie.” he said sullenly. “You want fries with that?” The second great formula and refrain. Other customers gave her an excuse to totally ignore him from that point on, and as Vanessa was the one who finally gave him his order, she didn’t see him any further. When the rush had eased a little, Vanessa asked, “What did he say to you, can you tell me?” in an all-agog sort of way that Lara found supremely irritating. “Oh, he wanted to chat and there was a huge line behind him. Kind of inconsiderate.” “You know who that '' was?? That was ''Kevin!” “Wow, I’m really impressed. Whoever the heck is Kevin?” Lara shot off sarcastically. “Oh, sorry, I forgot you’re homeschooled.” Vanessa said in a slightly catty tone. “He’s only like '' the'' hottest stud in the school. He has practically all the girls after him; I swear, if he stopped to chat with me, I’d forget there was a line!” She giggled. “His dad’s a big-shot with the police, I heard. He has wild parties and stuff. You have no idea what you miss—Hi, can I take your order?” Lara was relieved when her manager Shawn—whom James called “the Shawn-nado” because he was always running—said around four that she could go on break. Logging out at the register, Lara headed out back, behind the wall of arbor-vitae and brush, to sit by the river. She found it very restful. There was a mossy bank here with a gravel bar when the river was low, and some tall willows arched overhead above the R&B sportsworld fence across the stream. Bushes shut it in, and it was damp and shady. Why did she still hold out? You have no idea what you miss. She could be one of them, too, go to parties and get wild, and laugh with the rest…have boyfriends…boys would be actually be kind of fun, if the ones who hit on her hadn’t always seemed to be the ones that annoyed the heck out of her. Maybe Kevin. She wondered what it would be like to go out with a god like him. The thought gave her very queer and pleasant butterflies. It was no good. She knew all too well what would happen. She would mingle and laugh with the shallow crass youth, and soon she would fall silent, half disgusted and half amused, until their company was a chore and a bore. Like the idiots she worked with. For good or ill she was set apart, she was far above them by mind and by upbringing; she was high, and even if she succumbed to them she would never be one of them. Boyfriends?....She’d tried that when she was 14. After about three boys in as many months she had washed her hands of them. None of them knew a thing about romance. None of them knew how to behave. None of them were gentlemen. Lara felt tired the next day. Her eyes hurt. It was a warm and cloudless day, free of yesterday’s excessive swampiness. The hills had a clear green-shadowed appearance against the blue sky, with the morning sun upon them: a summer-morning effect. “That’s right, Saturday is the Memorial Day weekend.” she remembered. It was still an hour before her shift began when she drove into Winsted. She felt the urge to just take a stroll somewhere before she worked. Driving up Main St she passed the police station and the long curve north, until the shops began to end just before the Methodist church. Here an iron footbridge spanned the river, and Lara had always been curious where it went. She parked. The restaurants in the brick-fronted store buildings were still closed. She crossed the street. There was a ramp, edged with iron-bar rails, up to a landing where the ramp turned right and became wood. Another incline up to a second landing, perched on four square pillars high above the bank, and then the ramp turned square left and leaped out across the river, in a single span of almost 60 feet. The floor was wood plank. Square bar rails painted green ran at chest height. The river was amazingly far below. Her footsteps made the bridge quiver pleasantly. On the far side was a paved level bike path, with oldish signs sporting old photographs and historical description of the Hartford-Albany RR whose grade the path followed, but a network of fine cracks made it difficult to decipher. On the right locust trees leaned over an asphalt ramp cloven by many roots, leading to a double concrete switchback ramp up to Prospect Street, whose ribbed concrete wall, thickly grown with vertical green eunonymous, loomed above the grade. Lara turned left and started down the path. A fence of two round metal poles in wood posts ran on the left, planted with hostas. On the right was a steep bank grown with saplings and some planted rhododendron and spire-like whitecedar, above which rose the cement cliff. It was open, but trees grew downhill along Mad River. A little farther on was a metal bench with a trash can, and then huge old Norway maples closed overhead like a green roof. The concrete wall ended, and perched atop the high bank under the lanky maples were tall thin old tenements, tottery and quaint with age and dinginess, a bare slope of earth running down the grade: transplanted as it were from some inner-city, poor houses built next to the tracks. It was beautiful under the deep-green tunnel of leaves, cool and shaded and quiet. The path made a curve, and there stood another bench and past it a dull grey-blue tenement built right next to the grade. Its’ windows must have rattled themselves apart when trains would come by. An old man was sitting on the bench, leaning forward, elbows propped on knees. He had blue jeans and a denim coat, contrasting with his wild grey-white hair and large beard. “Well, Lara,” said Peter Midwinter, looking up. “I had a feeling you would be along.” “Uncle Peter!” smiled Lara. “How have you been?” “Pretty well, lass, pretty well. I camp in the hills now that it’s so nice out. The shelter’s all very well, but…I don’t like depending on others. So!” looking up again with a bright gleam in his blue eyes, “tell me: have you been to Temple Fell?” “Yes.” said Lara shortly. “And you saw Arheled?” “We’ve been seeing him for a long time. He only told us who he was when we were all gathered on Temple Fell. I gave him the lore when he asked me.” “What is he like?” Peter Midwinter asked intently. “He’s…” Lara fell silent. “He’s really hard to describe, Uncle. Most of the time he looks like you, you know, a man, middle years, with a sort of rough weathered atmosphere, like any workman or farmer who you might run into around town or up in the lake cabins, you know; the kind of man who burns wood and does things himself…but then you look at his eyes or at the strange depths of his face, and you realise with a profound shock that he really is not human. Such strange eyes…sort of blue, with amber radiating like a heart from around the pupils…and when they look on you, you feel sort of childish, I mean as if everything you think most fundamental is in his sight shallow, passing and unlasting, a flicker that changes and is lost; I think it is a sorrow to him. He speaks with a queer deep wisdom, as if he sees everything from behind and underneath; every time I listen to him I feel like I’m wrenched around backward, you never think about things the way his words make you see them. It’s eerie, and very wonderful.” “I only heard him once.” said Peter Midwinter wistfully. “During that sad little misunderstanding. I felt so sorry for those officers.” “I should think you would be bitter toward the police, after all that.” “No, where would be the point in that?” He sighed, shifting his position. Lara sat down beside him. “Understand, Lara, I do not hate the police. In a perfect world they would not exist, for there would be no need of them; but every society must form some means for holding in check our fallen nature. Sometimes crude. Sometimes complicated, like ours. They are a necessary evil. They are like dogs, you know? A dog is needed to patrol the house and chase wolves away and bite the burglar, but he needs chains and fences as well, to keep him from chasing the cars or biting the paperboy or eating pet cats. The police are needed. If their cold headlight did not prowl the roads, evil men would have no check on their deeds and no man would be safe.” “The police are not dogs! That’s ridiculous! My father isn’t like that at all.” Peter’s voice grew scornful. “You’ve never seen them, Lara, when they’ve just pounced on some poor devil who was driving too fast or whose insurance was a week late, standing by their patrol cars in the glare of the lights and laughing, boasting loud talk like hunters with a good kill: ‘Ha ha! We got another one, boys! Ain’t it a beaut?’ You’ve never seen them, when they creep by you late at night, faintly nodding, their faces cold and watching, ready to drop? And they know that none can defy their will, and you must speak subserviently and placatingly until they are appeased, for they have the guns and what they say is law.” “They’re just upholding the law.” “They are the Law.” Peter said in a flat voice. “With the cameras in their cars they now scan your license plate, and in a blink they have your history all spread out on a screen, and if every little jot and tittle is not perfect and in order, on go the flashing lights, and the dogs pounce again.” “I thought you said you didn’t hate them, Uncle.” “They are my unfriends, but not my enemies.” he replied. “I would never abolish the police, Lara. Remake them, yes; limit them, most definitely; but however much they need reform, they are needed more.” “That sounds reasonable.” she said thoughtfully. “Yes, what you say does have a lot of sense. Even my dad was a bit leery of the cameras in the cars; and it’s stupid forcing everyone to get insurance for several thousand a year, when most people are in accidents like, what, once in five years? New Hampshire gets along just fine without insurance requirements.” “It’s amazing, too, how the disasters are piling up.” Peter said. “The Midwest just suffered more fierce storms. Floods and tidal waves, earthquakes, wars in various places…” “Not exactly on an apocalyptic scale, though.” “Oh, that.” said Peter. “No, the sort of disasters that foretells are more toward the very end. But you have to admit it is uncanny how well-acclaimed our President is.” “Tell me, do you think our society is more evil than ancient Rome?” “More. We have greater power. We have abilities no society before us has ever possessed. Not even the Seeing-stones of Numenor or the Nineteen Rings of Power can mimic the marvels our technology has wrought; the men of Gondor never rode in cars, nor did the Elves build computers.” “We don’t fly around on portable jetpacks, either.” “True, true. It all depends on what direction a society is pushing. Our society wanted to know, not travel. And know we do; the phone in your pocket can rival an Oracle, and the happenings in China are world-known in moments. We can analyse the stars and work miracles on flesh.” He shuddered. “Knowledge is worse than swift travel. We have become gods.” The week drew to a close, and the days grew soft and muggy and delightfully hot, as they often do in late May. It felt like summer, thought Ronnie Wendy. It felt like, well, Memorial Day. The smell of ferns and damp warm forest, haze and heat and pollen. The gloomy cold was a bad dream. Brooke from her letters seemed to be practically camping on the beach: it made the others laugh. With Memorial Day being three days away, the sense of urgency was growing stronger in his mind. There was only one Hill to find the Sign of; the others were known, but half of them made no sense. “I am the one who finds things out.” he murmered, pulling the battered paper with the traced diagram from Street Hill out of his pocket. The library around him was quiet; the pretty librarian, wearing a bodiced blue dress and lace sweater, was putting books away. He took the topographic map atlas and flipped it to the Winsted quadrangle as an idea occurred to him. Maybe the lines of that glyph matched those on the map. Looking at the Riverton area, Ronnie noticed at once that the road going north from it branched exactly as the top right lines of the glyph did. Yes, and if he traced that down the Farmington River…that curve would correspond with… “Ronnie!” Bell’s voice squealed. “How do you like my old house?” Ronnie slowly returned to his surroundings. It was about an hour later. “Bell, look at this.” he told her. (map) “The lines I labeled corresponds to the same features on the map.” Ronnie was saying excitedly. “Of course, some are approximates, such as Spencer Hill Rd which is more crooked, or Losaw which is more bent. The curve north of that seems to follow the line of some hills. This east part was troublesome, as I had to trace it by a combination of streams and land features; same with that odd hook over west of Colebrook. But the four-way intersection south of Colebrook fits the map perfect. So do the roads north of Riverton.” “That is so '' cool!''” Bell exclaimed. “And what do you think the grapevine is?” “I’m pretty sure the kinks match the folds in a rock somewhere.” “Oh nice, we’ve only got about two million rocks in this area…” “We’ll know it when we see it. Bell, you coming to the Tower?” “Of course I am. So is Forest. Dad’s having a cookout in the morning but we should be able to sneak over.” “Good. The others were vague about it, but I’m going to be there. It’s the last of the Nine Hills.”